The Tree Man Of Dewer's Hollow
by AMKelley
Summary: Sherlock/Slender Man- Sherlock stumbles upon something he can't quite explain and it takes him deep into the woods. But his impending death doesn't seem to bother him... It's the fact that he can't make sense of what's happening. (A slightly different case than The Hounds of Baskerville)*AU, Crack Pairing, Tentacles, Non-Con, Tentacle Sex, Myths, Sexual Content, Loss Of Virginity*


Sherlock watches Henry's mouth move and he can see John in his peripheral vision listening intently to what the young man has to say but all Sherlock can hear is what Henry had told him about the "thing" he saw in the woods. A man of monstrous proportions, cloaked in darkness with a pale face, or lack thereof Sherlock supposed, since Henry had made it clear that the man he saw in the woods had no facial distinctions whatsoever.

Henry described it as a "tree man" that blended in quite well with the surrounding shrubbery which lead Sherlock to be skeptical of someone actually being there. A tall slender fellow as Fletcher described him, wearing a black suit and towering above branches. Fletcher claimed he never got a good look but he said the man definitely had no face from what he could see. And that took Sherlock back to where they had initially started.

That didn't really give them much to work with did it? How were they supposed to find a man with no face? Sherlock was already internally scolding himself for taking on such a dubious case that was purely imagined up by a scared child who watched his father brutally murdered by a garden variety man. Oh yes, Sherlock was seeing through the deeply shelled façade of Henry's story quite clearly. He was obviously horribly scarred at the age of nine upon seeing his father killed.

Sherlock quickly deduced that the man Henry saw twenty years ago was obviously wearing black clothing to not be seen in the dark and a mask to hide his face. While him and his father went meandering in the woods the killer must've used a blitz attack to subdue Henry's father, leaving Henry to watch helplessly in the enclosure. And since Henry was so young adults appeared to be larger than life, thus letting his poor fragile mind make up an illusion. A ghost story.

But ghosts didn't exist and certainly tall fellows in black suits with no face didn't exist either. Such odd theories in such funny little brains, Sherlock mused. What has he been reduced to? Piecing together a twenty year old ghost story that was nothing more than a tasteless and all around boring homicide. If John could hear his thoughts right now Sherlock knew what he'd say.

'It surely beats searching for a luminous rabbit', John would say and Sherlock would cringe at the thought of something so ridiculous. Surely they were better than that, well that'd maybe be on John's level, but Sherlock solved things far more interesting than glowing rabbits and abnormally tall men in business suits. He could see John being happy hunting for Bluebell, but Sherlock needed, craved, more than that.

Henry's going on about words he remembers seeing and John is diligently writing them down for later reference. Sherlock doesn't need things such as papers and records, they're all in his head. Deeply seeded inside of his mind palace where only he knows how to navigate. "Liberty" and "In" Henry's rambling on about and Sherlock quickly quips the expression "Liberty in death" out loud, speaking to John as an afterthought. Like he needed to be clarified even though he was positive he had remembered it correctly.

Henry asks John if he's finished with his coffee and John makes a sound and a simple nod as a polite gesture, letting Henry put the sugar and cream away. John doesn't take sugar, Sherlock recalls to the forefront of his mind.

"What now, then?" Henry asks as he turns back round after he makes a side glance to his backyard out of paranoia and nervously drums his hands on the countertop.

"Sherlock's got a plan," John says hopefully, expecting just that from his friend. It's not a question but it's filled with a smidgen of doubt as if John is losing faith in him. But John would never stop believing in Sherlock no matter how eccentric he got.

"Yes," Sherlock replies confidently with a cheeky grin after taking a sip of coffee. "We take you back out onto the moor and see if anything attacks you."

John nods once and then his brain registers what Sherlock just said, head snapping over towards him and asking "what" in a flustered tone.

"At night?" Henry inquires with wide eyes. "You want me to go out there at night?"

"That's your plan?" John scoffs in a mocking tone, stifling a forced laugh before completing his remark with a sarcastic, "Brilliant."

"Do you have any better ideas?" Sherlock presses, getting down to his last nerve but masking it very well, at least well enough for John to miss.

"That's not a plan."

"If there is a monster out there, John, there's only one thing to do, find out where it lives." Sherlock grins again, making his eyes crease as he takes another sip of coffee. He's bouncing back and forth between utter seriousness and cheekines, trying to balance out the absurdity of this case. Sherlock was certain they'd leave Dewer's Hollow unharmed and with no sighting of the tree man.

It's dark by the time they get out to the clearing of grass and rocks. They all have they're own flashlights and Sherlock trudges closely behind Henry who leads the way into the moor with John close behind. Even though the sun has set Sherlock can still make out the shape of Baskerville in the distance with the faint glimmer of searchlights doing timed routine sweeps of the grounds.

Sherlock exhales shallowly and pulls his collar up over his neck and there's an unmistakable huff from behind, noting swiftly that John's silent remark is only more proof of how predictable he really is. He needed to stop doubting John's ability to notice things even he couldn't and really start praising John on his positive merits. Sherlock knew John wasn't dumb. Sherlock was just too smart.

They draw nearer and nearer to the edge of the woods, flashlights held in tight grips and scanning the surrounding area occasionally to see any sign of any creatures or beasties that may be lurking in the shadows. Sherlock takes note of Henry's more trembling footfalls and the way it seems to get colder as they progress further. The atmosphere seemed to get closer and more dense and Sherlock felt himself shiver but he decided it was because of the nip in the air. He wasn't afraid of things that didn't exist.

It isn't until him and Henry reach the "danger" sign that Sherlock even realizes John is no longer following, judging by the absence of John's unique footfalls and the beam of his torch is gone leaving only his and Henry's. But Sherlock doesn't stop to spare a glance behind him or call out for John because he's too focused on the matter at hand. He doesn't know when he became so intrigued by this slender tree man, then again Sherlock couldn't resist the urge to prove someone wrong.

So he follows Henry deeper into the thickly populated woods, sparking up a conversation about Bob Frankland to see how Henry would respond. He's not entirely... thrilled... about the subject but Sherlock figures that even just a little bit of chat is better than the bleak and boring sound of the woods. Sherlock asks Henry questions he already knows the answers to, trying to kill the creeping suspicion of something foul lurking up his spine.

Sherlock mentions the possible strain on Henry's father's relationship with Dr. Frankland, wondering faintly if Frankland's occupation had something to do with his father's untimely death. It could certainly put a damper on things. Henry's father could've threatened to ruin Frankland's career, making Frankland act on impulse. The motive was there but Henry insisted that wasn't the case, stating that "mates are mates".

Henry makes a remark about Sherlock's and John's relationship as if to compare it, making Sherlock get a little defensive by the mention of their friendship. It's a topic people have to walk on eggshells while discussing it with Sherlock but luckily for Henry they reach their destination before any explaining can happen. Henry stops, pointing the beam of his torch down into a pit to shine upon the archway of the derelict coal mine.

"Dewer's Hollow," Henry breathes out in a shivered and frightened tone.

Sherlock walks around to the other side where the ground gets steep in a slanted way so people could walk up and down it. He trudges down into the enclosure by himself to have a closer look as Henry stays behind, watching Sherlock from up above the hollow. Sherlock shakes his head and rolls his eyes as the fallen leaves make him slide down into pit, judging Henry's sense of reality, or lack thereof.

It had looked dull from up above but as soon as Sherlock got to the level ground he suddenly felt trapped within the confines of the hollow, shuddering when the fog pulled in tightly around him. Sherlock spun around a few times to check his surroundings out of paranoia, getting dizzy and lost quickly as his vision was obscured by the thick atmosphere. When Sherlock exhaled sharply he saw the telltale signs of his visible pants wafting into the air to join the fog. That somehow made him shiver, making him pull his coat around himself for protection.

A deathly silence had fallen upon the woods, prompting Sherlock to still his breaths to listen more intently on his surroundings but he could hear nothing in the vicinity's radius. He couldn't even hear Henry from above the enclosure. No breathing or complaining or scattered rambling. Sherlock's heart stopped for a brief second, almost to fast for him to notice, and he swallowed despite himself.

Sherlock turned around, finding where he had entered from and raised his flashlight up towards where he remembered seeing Henry stand. He raised the beam too damn slow in an agonizing pace and the slight tremble in his hand made him rethink his highly regarded self control. His mind was pulling out blanks and his body was betraying him. Sherlock was second guessing his better judgment.

The beam of light inch upwards just a little more and to Sherlock's surprise Henry was no longer standing there. Henry was gone and Sherlock was by himself. Sherlock would rank on Henry but he couldn't bring himself to do it, having realized something awful must've spooked him to run off. And Sherlock was right on his assumption.

He didn't see anything at first as he scanned the side of the ledge, shining light on only trees and bushes, but there was a noise to his left which made him spin around towards it by instinct. Sherlock pointed the light at a thin tree, panting harshly with wide eyes as his mind slowed down enough to assure him it was just that. Sherlock let out a slow sigh of relief and lowered his light to his side, heart still pumping blood through his body furiously as he bent forward slightly to catch his breath.

Sherlock took shaky breaths to calm his nerves, laughing deeply at himself disdainfully for actually letting himself get worked up and scared over something that wasn't there. It was a mixture of darkness, cold, and the knowledge of being alone in a pit that sent his mind whirring with emotion and Sherlock made sure that wouldn't happen again. He rose up straight with closed eyes, letting out one more shaky laugh-filled sigh and tugged at his coat.

There was absolutely nothing to be afraid of after all.

He turned around to climb out of the hollow and shined his light upwards to make sure he was going the right way, catching a glimpse of movement out of the corner of his eye. Sherlock pivoted slightly to the right with his light and his heart dropped, stilling the flow of his blood and making his eyes widen at the figure atop the ledge. He wasn't sure what he was seeing or if he was seeing anything at all, but it was there. Waiting for him.

How long had it been standing there? Watching him with an expressionless face? How could it see him with no eyes? It stood there perfectly still next to a tree, looking imposing with it's abnormal height and thin body cloaked in blackness and Sherlock could see how he could've missed the creature before. It blended in so well with the trees, leaving only it's pale white head as any indicator that it was even there.

Sherlock took a step back by reflex, panicking internally and wracking his mind for a logical explanation. The trick of the light and fog, perhaps? Sensory overload? All Sherlock can think about is how wrong he was and how right Henry is. Sherlock can run away and never look back, erasing the memory of ever seeing this thing, but he can't. It's blocking the only way out of the hollow and there's no where else to go but into the coal mine.

He could look for a way out through the tunnels but judging by the neglect of twenty plus years, they may have collapsed a long time ago. The best thing Sherlock could do was hide but the idea didn't seem to be much use because Sherlock lingered in one spot for far too long, noticing that the thin man was no longer standing on top of the hollow but right in front of him. There's a moment of pure horror that courses through Sherlock's bones and then only a flash of white, then blackness.

Sherlock feels his legs give out as he faints and before his eyes roll into the back of his head he can feel long thin appendages wrap around his body. His heart quickens and then he's afraid.

Sherlock comes to awhile later. It's still dark outside and from what Sherlock came make out through blurry eyes is that he's still in the woods. He shifts experimentally. Nothing hurts and he's obviously still alive. His head rolls to one side and then the other, taking in his new surroundings and not recognizing them. Sherlock doesn't know where he is and he doesn't know where that thing is.

He's suddenly frightened again, not only because that monster could be lurking anywhere but also because he's all alone. Sherlock can't hear anyone calling out for him and he's knows John would be worried if he disappeared. Surely he'd come looking for him right? Right. There's nothing to worry about, Sherlock tells himself, you've obviously been drugged and left in the woods. Sherlock sighs with a faint smile but his self-assurance is shortly lived.

There are wiggling things snaking around his arms and legs, pinning him to the ground with unseen strength. Sherlock's eyesight is still somewhat blurry but the unmistakable orb of white obscures his field of vision and he can feel the fear and adrenaline pumping through his blood as slender fingers trail along his pliant body. The thing tilts it's head to one sides as if it's curious and Sherlock can't suppress the deep swallow his throat makes.

Sherlock hears buttons popping open and a zipper being pulled down, the sound being amplified times ten and it's the only thing he can hear past the blood pounding in his ears. He feels those slender things wrapped around his legs yanking his trousers down to his ankles, along with his underwear, and Sherlock's eyes grow wide. What the hell was this thing going to do to him?

Sherlock's lower half was exposed to the night and the creature's eyeless gaze. He tried to squirm away but he was firmly planted to the ground and it only made the dirt and leaves stick to his backside even more. Sherlock felt thoroughly degraded and uncomfortable as he wiggled around in the dirt and the creature didn't seem to like that at all because the front of Sherlock's dress shirt was violently ripped open, sending the buttons flying in opposing directions.

He gasped at the reaction of the thing holding him captive and the night air nipped harshly at his chest, causing goosebumps to form along his plank. Sherlock's nipples were painfully hard from the cold and if his mind would think logically for just one second he wouldn't find it so erotic. His body was betraying him despite his best efforts and Sherlock knew he was getting turned on. He felt that foreign, and pesky, stirring in his groin and he curses under his breath.

The curse is broken off into a startled gasp as his legs are drawn roughly apart and there is another one of those slender appendages placed firmly at his entrance, teasing it in a way. Sherlock lets out shaky breaths, trying to calm himself but it doesn't work. It's pressing forward, wanting entry into his unused body, into a place no one has ever been. Not even himself.

This really frightens Sherlock. He knows what's going to happen. He's about to be raped by a supernatural being he doesn't even believe in and he's going to let it happen without so much as a struggle. Sherlock is going to let this thing take him in the woods and violate his body. He needs to be disgusted and fight back, but Sherlock does neither of those things. He lets the pale thing pin his arms above his head and lets his body betray him.

Sherlock surrenders.

Soon there after, his body is breached to the hilt by an unidentified appendage working into and out of his entrance in a set pace, thrusting shallowly against his prostate. Sherlock really can't help it when he gets impossibly hard and he really can't stop the string of moans that proceed, falling out from between his parted full lips in ranging pitches. It's safe to say Sherlock has never felt anything like this because he hasn't.

It's all too much too fast for him and his nerves are lighting up like excited electrons. Sherlock closes his eyes and tries to center his mind but the appendages around his wrists and ankles are dragging him down to the reality of his situation and the harsh thrusting into his passage is shoving him out of his mind palace. The thing sodomizing him is quite aware of his mental escape and it's even more intent on keeping him here in the woods until it's finished with him.

So Sherlock is forced to stay in the here and now with this monster, letting his body be breached and over worked within an inch of his life. Arousal was fogging his mind and the only thing that could keep his mind from going completely south is him concentrating on how many of the foreign appendages this thing had. That would help occupy his time.

There were the two around his wrists and then the ones around his ankles and the one in his...

"Ahh!" Sherlock called out as it thrusted deep inside of him sharply, making his body convulse and jerk with spasms.

Four of those strange things wrapped around his body and one working around in his body, stroking his prostate and the tight vice of his channel. Sherlock was moaning uncontrollably and his body was shaking with arousal and he's wondering why John hasn't found him yet. Sherlock's moaning would've alerted someone by now, right? He was being ungodly loud because he didn't know a thing about being quiet. But Sherlock had to accept the fact that no one was coming. He was alone.

To make things worse, Sherlock's body was humping itself down onto the appendage more and more, impaling himself further to get more of it inside of him. Sherlock couldn't stop his body from doing what it was and he was so far gone that he didn't care anymore. His body was taken over with pleasure, blinded by bliss and blackness and whenever his eyes flutter open he can see the outline of the thin man.

Sherlock keeps his eyes closed for the most part and pretends that it isn't this thing violating, he imagines it as someone else. John. Sherlock pretends it's John making love to him because it's the only thing that makes him feel safe and warm while this is happening. John taking him slow and working him over expertly, gentle arms closing in around him to seal him in a tight embrace. Sweet, romantic John...

Six.

There's six of those things all over Sherlock's body. The sixth one has wrapped itself around Sherlock's hard cock and starts stroking in time with the thrusting of the other. Sherlock is experiencing the beginnings of orgasm, something he's never delved into frequently like most, and he panics for a brief moment. It's all too bizarre even for the great Sherlock Holmes and he almost doesn't believe it.

The atmosphere is thick and cold and he can feel those slender fingers tracing circles around his nipples as he's stroked and fucked by long appendages. Sherlock is aware of how loud he's being but he's also listening, keeping an ear out for anything. Anyone that might be approaching or any animals, but there isn't. The thing above him never makes a sound either. How could it? It has no mouth.

What can this pale thing get from sodomizing him? Why hasn't it killed him? Where's John? Why can't my body just control itself and listen to me? John, where are you?

These are the things Sherlock thinks as he comes hard against himself, panting harsh cold breaths as his prostate is pressed upon in a string of percussive thrusts whilst his cock jerks in the grasp of that tentacle-like appendage. His heart is beating far to fast and Sherlock's surprised he hasn't hyperventilated yet. Sherlock's pulse is thrumming in his veins and through the clutter in his head and the haze of orgasm, Sherlock wants to feel ashamed. But he can't.

All he can think about is being wrong.

After stumbling blindly out of the woods in torn clothes and shaky legs, Sherlock finds himself fully clothed and warm, safe, by the fireside at Cross Keys next to John who has been eyeing him skeptically for the past half hour. Sherlock was being too quiet and his hands were shaking as he gripped the glass to take a swig of alcohol, hoping it would calm his nerves. He just needed to think about what happened to him and found out a logical solution.

But he squirmed in his chair uncomfortably, the pain of being breached a constant reminder of what really happened to him. Sherlock would be able to handle it better if John would just stop staring at him, judging him in silence. He knew John was itching to ask what happened to him out on the moor but he was trying to hold off on it for as long as he could.

When John found him stumbling at the edge of the woods he knew something had happened to Sherlock, something awful but he didn't know what. Sherlock had been a mess too. His clothes were defiled and his hair was mussed, leaves from the ground caught in the curls, and what was left of his clothes were covered in muck and dirt. Like he had been dragged through the woods.

"What happened to you? Out there on the hollow?" John finally asks, unable to suppress his curiosity and concern. "Henry came running out saying he saw the tree man. Where were you?"

"I was just looking around the moor," Sherlock said blankly, staring into the fire and hoping John would forget about. "Just because Henry's afraid doesn't mean it affects my ability to investigate."

"But you weren't there," John says.

"Pardon?"

"You weren't at Dewer's Hollow. I came looking for you just after Henry ran out," John explains to Sherlock, pressing the matter even more. "You weren't there, Sherlock."

Sherlock locks gazes with John and there's a faint flicker of hesitation in his eyes before Sherlock looks away entirely. John leans forward in his chair with his elbows poised on his knees and his knuckles just underneath his chin, studying Sherlock suspiciously.

"Did you see it?" John inquires thoughtfully. "Did it attack you?"

"I didn't see anything and I wasn't attacked," Sherlock defended.

"Then why were your clothes torn? And why were you falling do-"

"Nothing happened to me!" Sherlock shouts out loud, drawing all eyes over to them. Sherlock takes a deep breath to calm himself down and he looks over at John again, serious face. "I got lost and I panicked, alright? I may have gotten a little... scared. It could happen to anyone."

John looks at Sherlock for any signs of deception and Sherlock is so good at masking his emotions that John misses everything entirely. Sherlock watches John's face go through a series of subtle facial twitches, seeming to buy his excuse for the moment but Sherlock knows better. It was a long-shot, saying that he got lost and scared but Sherlock figures it might please John to know that he's also human. Even if it is a lie.

"Right," John breathes slowly, reading Sherlock carefully as he retracts his barrage of questions. He decides to change the subject. "So you haven't seen it?"

"No."

"Have we made any progress at all?"

"No," Sherlock replies monotonically, lying right in John's face because he's too afraid and can't explain what the hell happened to him out there. Sherlock decides it's for the best. Did it really even happen at all? Sherlock likes to pretend it didn't.

Because the best way to prove that something doesn't exist, is to lie about having seen it at all.


End file.
